


Random Dick Grayson one-shots

by Alfreds_Mustache



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood and Injury, Character Study, Dark Dick Grayson, Depression, Dick Grayson-centric, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt No Comfort, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Moral Ambiguity, Murder, No editing we die like mne, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Randomness, Self-Harm, Serial Killers, Suicidal Thoughts, What Have I Done, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23442868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alfreds_Mustache/pseuds/Alfreds_Mustache
Summary: Desperately, he thinks he’d rather die than be forced to stand another second of this deep, inescapable pain. But he’s stuck, rooted to the ground by the agony coursing through his veins, pulsing outward to every little capillary just below the surface of his skin.Never before had he wanted his life to end more than he did right now.*A/N: So... I have a lot of half-ideas running around in my head, but no real direction for them... thus, this one-shot collection was born, I guess. ;-;
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Wally West
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	1. Anguish

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it's not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> No update schedule, this thing's gonna happen randomly as ideas come to me. If you like any chapter in particular (or have any ideas for future ones), let me know and i'll do my best to expand on it!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: in-depth descriptions of pain, thoughts of suicide/wanting to die, possible character death (purposely left ambiguous). Please take care of yourselves and proceed with caution!

Anguish. Nothing but pure, unadulterated anguish filled his very being. It consumed and enveloped him more quickly than his legs dropped out from under him, leaving him stranded—and alone and in  _ so much pain _ — on the cold, cement floor.

Nothing would ever be the same, certainly not after this.

The pit in his stomach grew and surged upward the more he desperately struggled to press it down.

A deep ache worked its way into his bones, muscles, tendons; into his lungs, his eyelids, his eardrums. It overcame him swiftly, knocking the air out of him before he had time to breathe. It swept over his body, seeping into his core before surging outward to occupy his every limb and organ, every bone and tendon and muscle—until every skin cell and blood vessel in his body was throbbing in time with the rapid beating of his heart. He was entirely consumed, utterly helpless against this invisible foe pressing down on him mercilessly.

He shivered where he lay, too numb even to feel the spasming of his muscles, or the cool touch of the ground below him as it pressed against his raw cheek.

Desperately, he thinks he’d rather die than be forced to stand another second of this deep, inescapable pain. But he’s stuck, rooted to the ground by the agony coursing through his veins, pulsing outward to every little capillary just below the surface of his skin. Just as quickly it would then shoot back toward his heart with a feeling like thousands of fire ants biting into his organs, tearing and wriggling into flesh and viscera, nibbling away at him with their little pincers, consuming him from the inside out.

He was a pile of flesh on the unforgiving ground, was at the world’s mercy—although right now it gripped him with anything but.

Everything hurt, his entire world was pain, his mere existence a speck in comparison to the overwhelming  _ anguish _ that made up everything else.

Never before had he wanted his life to end more than he did right now. Existence meant pain, and he craved the release of darkness that ceasing to exist would bring. Oblivion was saccharine bliss when compared to this remorseless hell.

As the pain continued to rip through him like hellfire, his mind went numb and his thoughts were silenced. Cries of misery crawled up his throat but never quite made it past his lips. Darkness crept into the corners of his vision, spreading outward like a drop of black ink in a glass of water. Then, when the hollow darkness threatened to swallowed him up—mind, body, and soul—he stared into the abyss with nothing but gratitude, and surrendered to it with a relieved sigh.

He was free.


	2. The Game (Dark!Dick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: graphic descriptions of murder, Dark!Dick Grayson. There will be blood, psychopathy, and mentions of serial killings.
> 
> PLEASE take care of yourselves, and read the Trigger Warning!! <3

He was good at pretending, good at putting on a show. He rather enjoyed it, actually; that’s why it had been so easy.

For years--ever since he could remember, really-- he’d fooled the masses, tricked them and manipulated them like a sculptor molding clay. They hadn't the slightest clue that they were under his intricately, expertly laid spell.

He had always been this way, had always been utterly fascinated by the concept of life. Or rather, how quickly it could be extinguished. He’d quickly discovered that he quite enjoyed how slowly it could be leaked out of a person, particularly if he also had a hand in it.

Nothing in the world could ever compete with the intensely gratifying rush of endorphins and dopamine that would surge through his every vein, every cell, every _atom_ , from the top of his head to the tip of his toes. The saccharine smell of blood in the air, often so potent that he could taste it on his tongue. The shrills that ripped from their vocal chords were a symphony, a beautiful composition waiting to be played, and he was the conductor of such a fine piece; he was a musician and their screams were his instrument of choice.

It always sated something deeply primal within himself, some dark, twisted hunger. It was an urge that hummed in the back recesses of his mind, that leaked into the forefront of his thoughts as the day wore on. He felt in every tensed muscle, every fabricated smile; he kept it just beneath his surface, never out of his reach, but just far enough away from even the most observant and prying eyes… It coiled tightly like a loaded spring, patiently (eagerly) awaiting its inevitable release.

The humming never truly stopped, only briefly dulled as he quenched his thirst, satisfied the urge, scratched the proverbial itch.

And _oh_ the satisfaction that came with it when he finally gave in…

Slick fingers stained a sticky vermillion. Puddles on the floor, stained a deeper, richer kind of red. It, too, would stain. Blood tended to do that, stain whatever it touched. Fickle thing it was—but so very _sweet_.

Warm viscera dripping onto the hard ground, oozing out of the unsuspecting. Their cries of terror would lodge in their throats before it could reach the air. The _hiss_ and _gurgle_ that accompanied their final breath, squeezing past their bloodied lips. The light that danced and shimmered across their weeping eyes petering out like the sputtering flame of a gas-lit stove.

Their desperation oftentimes made him laugh with something akin to glee.

He did pity them sometimes, though. Here he was, having all the fun in the world, excitement rushing through his veins and buzzing around his mind, and all they could do was watch. They were mere spectators, really. Lucky, then, that they were privileged enough to have a front-row seat.

He wasn’t ashamed of who he was or what he did. That didn’t, however, mean he was a fool. No, he knew better than to divulge his secret to anyone. He made certain to perform his act with precision and care so that, when he was finished and his compulsions were satisfied (at least to some degree), the world would be perfectly ignorant.

The secrecy, the acting, the thrill of the hunt—he loved it all, every second of it.

Sometimes he _wanted_ to be found out. He took great pride in what he did; each person, each kill, each conquer was an artwork, done masterfully and with the intent of being put on display.. What artist _wouldn’t_ want to take credit for their own work? It infuriated him to no end when his hard labors, his _masterpieces_ , were accredited to the lowest of the low, written off as someone else’s petty revenge. He found that notion to be, while infuriating, also fantastically absurd. As if simple gang members or drug runners or hitmen had any of the _finesse_ that made his work so utterly brilliant, and set him apart from the barbarians, the savages, the brutes. The suggestion alone would make him laugh if he wasn’t so troubled by their vagrant plagiarism. ( _Someone ought to do something about that,_ he’d think to himself rather sourly.)

But then he’d remind himself that _if_ he took credit (where credit was absolutely, frustratingly due), he'd be caught, apprehended, locked away—and whatever other distasteful “consequences” for his actions that society deemed fit— and the game would be over.

And it was most certainly a _game_ , in every sense of the word. He knew how to play it, and he played it well. While everyone else was left fumbling around for their game pieces he was dominating the board; he held all the cards—hell, he had an extra deck in his pocket and aces up his sleeves—and the others were still trying to figure out what was being played.

They were buffoons, fools, _idiots_ in comparison to his grandeur, his skill, his genius, his charm… and it killed him that they would never know it. That they would never know just how much _smarter_ and _faster_ and _better_ he was then _all of them combined ._

“More orange juice with your pancakes, Master Richard?”

An impish smile, a flash of teeth, a false glimmer in his eye; a fabricated air of innocence and gratitude as his unblinking, cerulean gaze met those of wisened, mahogany brown.

“Yes please, Alfred.”

He had them all fooled, they were eating straight out of the palm of his hand, and none of them were any the wiser.

He took a long sip from his glass, amused.

And the game continued.


	3. Harmless Marks (tw: self-harm)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: descriptions of self-harm, justification of self-harm.
> 
> In this chapter, Dick is an unreliable narrator; just because he’s choosing to justify his actions or write them off as “nothing” doesn’t necessarily mean he’s right! Take care of yourself, know your limits, and PLEASE keep the Trigger Warning in mind!! <3

Fingernails dug greedily into the flesh of his forearms, leaving lines of crescent shaped puncture wounds. Each little gauge took a chunk of skin and pain with it, letting little beads of blood and relief rush into the cold, open air.

Over and over he did this— for hours or minutes, he could never tell. Time wasn’t something he'd ever really considered when doing this, and rarely did he ever plan for it to take place. Rather, it was something that just...happened. He only did it when he needed to, when he felt stuck and stifled in his own mind and could find no way out.

Longer fingernails proved more effective for this therapeutic blood-letting (“marking”, he allowed himself to call it), giving him a reason to grow his fingernails out — just a little bit, not enough to be overtly noticeable under scrutiny. He’d just “forget” to clip them every once in a while.

He was too scared to try anything sharper than pencil lead; he’d tried a razor only once before, when he was young and just starting out. It was.. too sharp, too smooth, and ultimately left him feeling little satisfaction after the act. No, he quickly discovered that he much preferred rougher objects, such as the tip of a sharpened pencil, the teeth on a set of house keys, a jagged piece of discarded plastic.

And it wasn’t just the feeling that he preferred; it was so much easier to delude himself into believing that _this_ —marking—was better, that because he wasn’t using a razor to slit his wrists like so many others did, that he wasn’t actually harming himself. His marks (his _scars_ ) didn’t count, weren’t “as bad”. His method was less dangerous, and posed less immediate damage. His self-inflicted injuries didn’t _look_ like theirs, weren’t _made_ like theirs, so he therefore _wasn’t_ like them.

He didn’t do it out of depression, either, he told himself. Nor numbness; he didn’t do it simply for the sake of feeling something.

Rather, it was an outlet for his pain, his frustration, his anger. When it became too much to bear, when it all piled up in his mind and he could no longer shove it away for later, when it was drowning, _suffocating_ him from the inside— that was when he’d give in. It was a discreet replacement for shouting himself hoarse, or throttling and tearing into nearby objects; for embarrassing himself by creating a scene or posing a potential danger to those around him.

Really, it was so much… _simpler_ , this way. It was quiet, discreet, and no one had to know or get involved. It was perfect.

That’s why he’d gotten away with it for so long, he thinks, because it wasn’t really all that noticeable in the end anyway, and looked harmless enough that it wouldn't raise the red flags that typical cutting would. He’s thought himself rather clever, being able to fly discreetly under the radar like he has. He didn't even need to cover them up most of the time; they weren’t thin lines running across his wrists in neat little rows, so he had nothing to worry about.

Sure, it always stung a little for a few days after, and scabs would form but they were nothing he couldn’t handle. The amount of immediate relief he felt made every consequence after _absolutely_ worth it. The pain and rage and hurt that had been building up until it surged and overtook every fiber of his being would instantly wash away and allow him to finally _breathe_ again. He’d tried other things here and there— breathing exercises, stress toys, journaling— but nothing else worked. At least, nothing else felt so incredibly relieving or immediate.

This was far better in his opinion, far more effective in stopping his spiraling emotions in their tracks and bringing him back to reality. It was comforting.

For most of his life, he’d been taught to compartmentalize his feelings, to put aside his own pain and problems to focus on the mission, on others who needed his help.

Emotions got in the way of good detective work.

Emotion equated to bias.

_Emotion will get you killed._

He’d been accused of wearing his heart on his sleeve on more than one occasion by many over the years. With those years he could also feel himself growing colder, stonier, far more closed off; he’d grown angrier, gruffer, and more like the one man he’d vowed himself never to become. (On the inside, where others couldn’t see.)

Marking his skin gave him a controlled outlet in which to release his pent-up frustrations and anger. The more he did it, the lighter he’d feel, which allowed him to feel more of the things he’d started to forget, that he’d started to lose within himself. Things like happiness and excitement; other, simpler things like smiling and joking and laughing— and actually _meaning it_.

He enjoyed being able to simply let out his negative feelings; this was a small price to pay in exchange for being able to live his life the way he wanted to, and _happily_ , at that.

So he gained a few little scars, none of which were any worse than pockmarks, big whoop. Really, he faced injury—actual violent, brutal, life-threatening injury—on a nightly basis, like they all did.

So this was no big deal.

The only difference was that he _dealt with_ and _tolerated_ wounds that happened on the job, whereas he actively _craved_ and _sought out_ the self-inflicted marks.

He’d been asked a number of times before, “What were you doing?” (when he’d leave the room and disappear for a few minutes), and “Where were you?” (when he was late and gave no warning), and “How’d that happen?” (when the scabs were fresh and uncovered)....

The first two were easy to dodge; a quick smile and reply of something along the lines of “bathroom” were usually enough to halt any further questioning on the matter.

The third, however, wasn’t so easy to brush off, particularly because there was clear _evidence_ involved, and brushing the question off only raised more concerns. He’d found that creative explanations threw people for a loop. A ridiculous excuse like “All I can say is that it involved three invisible hyenas and a hot tub” or “One word: Legos.”

Laughter diffused most potentially serious discussions from occurring, and made it easier for him to divert the other person’s attention elsewhere.

‘Disarm them with humor’ had been his signature philosophy for years, and he continued to use it, if only because it worked (and the fact that laughing about something was the easiest way to hide his shortcomings, his pain, and all of his imperfections and mistakes). While they were distracted, he could collect himself, make a plan, and still remain one step ahead of everyone else.

He ignored how easily he seemed to fool everyone, how quickly they accepted his smiles and explanations and _I’m fines_ . Half of him _wanted_ them to see through his little lies and coverups, to ask him more questions and press for more answers, to pressure him for the truth. (Because then he wouldn’t feel so alone.) It would be proof that they’re actually familiar enough with the _real him_ to know when he’s lying to them, when he’s in pain, when he’s not fine.

But then the other half of him—the half that always won—would argue that he could do this by himself. He didn’t need to be coddled, shouldn’t need someone to hold his hand. He was a fully-functioning adult with some internal conflict. In other words, nothing that he couldn’t handle on his own. That he had been, and continued to, handle on his own.

Admitting that he had negative feelings—feelings that had such a large, oppressive hold on his mind—would be admitting that he was weak, that he couldn’t handle himself, that he needed (wanted) help, that he _wasn’t fine._

And that was something that he simply couldn’t risk. Sacrificing his integrity, his self-esteem, and his sanity wasn’t a trade he was willing to make for the sake of a hug or a pitying smile (or an eyeroll, a shrug, a ‘ _do bette_ r’).

Avoiding all of that was the far better option, in his opinion.

So, digging his fingernails (scissors, keys, plastic) into his flesh every so often was a small price to pay for his sanity and happiness. If that’s all it took to relieve the pressure—the immense weight on his shoulders that was pushing him to the ground and slowly grinding away at his spirit—then that’s what he’d continue to do.

It was this (the scars, the distractions, the jokes) that gave him the strength to continue being himself, and the person (brother, hero, son) that everyone else expected him— _needed_ him—to be.

(And if he kept telling himself that, then maybe it would all be true.)


	4. Without Wally (tw: death)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: self-harm, depression, major character death (canon), aftermath of death.
> 
> This one made me cry. Takes place after Young Justice “Endgame” (in which Wally dies/vanishes). T^T <3

The dreams had started a week after it happened. Sometimes he and Wally would hold hands, share a pizza, walk around the park. Other times he watched helplessly as Wally was dropped off of a trapeze platform, would cradle him as he bled out in his arms.

At first he’d hated them—all of them, both the good and the bad. They were sick reminders of what he’d lost, reopening the still-fresh wound.

Now he despised the nights when he didn’t dream at all. Those dreams were the only substitute for his Wally, they were the closest thing he had. Although they were a pale imitation of the real thing, they were all he had left.

(“I miss you. I haven’t called anyone in a while. I know what they’ll say. But I don’t need anymore ‘I’m sorrys’, I need  _ you _ .”)

At first he threw himself into his work. If he was constantly doing something he wasn’t letting his mind focus on anything (anyone) else. He put more effort into his police work during the day so that when he donned the Nightwing suit he could spend all of his time searching for answers—Where had Wally gone?

He was constantly researching new theories, because sooner or later one of them had to be right.

…Right?

With all of the neglect to his own self-care, it was a miracle he lasted as long as he did. He’d been skipping meals, sometimes for days at a time, sustaining himself by consuming 3-5 pots of coffee a day. He only slept when his body collapsed out from under him against his will, a testament to how hard he’d been pushing himself. Hygiene became something he deemed a luxury, unnecessary.

(“I can’t keep doing this. I-I don’t know what to do. I have no leads. None of my theories have panned out. I… Nobody’s helping me, and-and I don’t know what to do…”)

He wasn’t sure when the shift had occurred, but it made itself glaringly obvious when it did.

He woke up on the floor of the kitchen one afternoon, after a long week of research and following dead-end leads. It was the first time in a month that he’d woken up and didn’t immediately feel crushing sadness, terror of the unknown, anger at how slow the process was, angry at himself for being no closer to an answer than when he’d started. This time he felt none of that.

This time he felt hollow.

He laid there on the cheap tile for hours, unable to move because his limbs felt so heavy. It was like all of the light—motivation, desperation, hope—that’d been keeping him going for so long had been snuffed out.

His limbs were heavy. His eyes were blank. He felt so, unbelievingly tired all of the sudden, and he couldn’t escape it. He couldn’t sleep either, despite actually  _ wanting _ to for the first time in a long while. Hunger gnawed at him, his throat was so unbearably parched, but remaining sedentary had won the battle against satisfying his body’s basic needs.

It was rounding day four of this that the mindnumbing fog surrounding his brain lifted just enough for something new to spark inside of his chest, a burning desire, an itch, an urge he hadn’t felt in years igniting somewhere in the emptiness of his being.

(“You used to help me with the bandages. After awhile you became the reason for me to stop. I used to be an empty void, but then you filled it up with your light. You are my light, Wally….. You were.”)

He didn’t remember summoning the strength to pull himself from the ground, bracing his upper body on the countertop. He didn’t remember wobbling unsteadily across the room, fighting off a spell of dizziness as his vision became spotty.

He also didn’t remember fumbling his hand over the knife block, grasping at handles blindly until his clammy fingers finally wrapped around one.

(“I’m so lonely… Wally, I can’t do this. I’m so sorry, I know I promised you I wouldn’t an-and it’s been so long since last time but I-I-I can’t! Okay? I can’t keep this up and I’m so, so, so sorry…”)

The fog finally released him from its hold when the blade drags across his bicep, leaving a thin line of blood to start trickling down his left arm.

He blinked groggily as though just awakening from a midday nap. He eyes the blood beginning to pool at his wrist and his breath catches at the sight.

(“W-we worked so hard,  _ I _ worked so hard and I tried, I really, really tried but… Walls, I’m so lost… I-I don’t… I’m-I’m scared. I’m scared of what I’ll do w-without you here, Walls…”)

Suddenly, hot tears are streaming from his eyes and racing down his cheeks faster than he can blink them away. His vision is blurry, eyebrows drawn together; without his permission, his chin starts to tremble, his nostrils flare, and something painful lodges halfway down his throat.

A choked sob rips itself from his chest—then another, and another and now he can’t stop—as his knees buckle and he collapses once again on the floor. He’s trembling hard and feels as though he’s been punched hard in the stomach. Instead of breathing air he’s choking on tears, suffocating under the pressure of the heaving sobs and all that comes out of his mouth are broken wails and  _ he can’t stop shaking _ .

(“I’m s-sorr-y, I-I-I, I c-can’t… I’m sor-ry I’m sorry I’m so so so so sor-r-ry….”)

God, he missed Wally so much. He’d give anything,  _ anything _ to have him right here, holding him close and whispering to him that  _ everything’s going to be okay… _ Running his fingers soothingly through his hair as he wept on his shoulder, rocking him softly in his arms and and staying with him because that’s what he did, because he promised to be there for him when things got Bad…

As he sobbed and trembled and hurt (he was in so much  _ pain _ without Wally here with him,  _ so much pain he couldn’t take it _ ), hunched over on himself all the while, he lined the knife up with the crook of his elbow.

It felt heavy in his hand, so heavy and oh god he was in so much pain (why did it have to be this way? Why did Wally have to leave?  _ Why did everybody always leave? _ )— he sliced into his flesh quickly, not caring how crooked or deep it landed. Right now he didn’t care. It felt like his heart was going to burst and he was in so much pain and he couldn’t stop  _ trembling _ .

He continued to do this, slashing line after line into the skin of his arm, all the way down to the wrist. It was only then that his pain-filled sobs started to fade into low, heartbroken cries accompanied by the occasional sniffle.

Exhausted, he let himself slump backwards a bit to lean heavily against the wall. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to just breathe.

(“...I miss you so  _ goddamn _ much… Please,  _ please come back _ .”)

Tears continued to leak from the corners of his eyes. His face was wet and splotchy, his arm warm and heavy. A dull ache had started deep along the length of his arm, spreading steadily to the rest of his body. It thrummed through him as waves of tiredness threatened to overtake him.

Within minutes he was swept under, into the alluring embrace of darkness.

(“......Wally…...please…...”)


	5. Forgettable (Dark!Dick)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine. All rights go to DC Comics.
> 
> TW: reference to (canon) deaths, moral ambiguity.

When half of his family tree falls to their deaths right in front of him, he watches curiously.

The most notable thing, he recalls years later when asked about the incident, is how balmy the weather was that night.

Really, after the whole ordeal he just wanted to curl up under a blanket and sleep for days. Ugh, he’d been practicing and practicing and  _ practicing _ \- and now all his muscles ached and cried for rest.

He understands why the police have to take him away, really, he does. It’s just so… inconvenient. Isn’t it?

All his stuff, entertainment, food… it’s all in the circus. If he leaves, all he’ll have is instability and unpredictability- two very obnoxious things to deal with.

But, he supposed, being thrown into a new world where no one knows or particularly cares about you is the perfect opportunity to sneak out undetected whenever he so chooses.

In a way, he’s glad that this all has happened. It’s given him something to do for fun, in his free time. It gives him a purpose of sorts, and for that he is absolutely grateful.

Shame when he finds the guy, though. Maybe he isn’t the be-all end-all… that man, alternatively, could merely be the beginnings of something beautiful and enriching.

Yes, he decides. The execution of Tony Zucco shall be the first of many more fantasies to come.

Hm. Maybe not such a forgettable night after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay indoors, wash your hands, and show appreciation however you can for all the healthcare professionals (& other essential workers) who are working hard during these strange times. <3


End file.
